


this time of night

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 'cross-gender' roleplaying, Angst, F/M, M/M, fucked-up h/c, h/c, het that's actually slash, roleplaying, slash that's actually het, unwitting incest, verbal porning up of Merlin's hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Until he doesn’t know anything but you, Arthur—until he’s forgotten his name.” And when Morgana says it, “Merlin,” the black hole of Arthur’s want opens, raging through his chest in its consuming fury. (+8k)</p>
            </blockquote>





	this time of night

**Author's Note:**

> WATCH THE WORDVOMIT.
> 
> 1\. This started out as an itch to write Arthur/Morgana hate sex (inspired by chest hair pulling, which is fucking hot) but of course I can’t write hate sex without the angst, so Merlin sort of became the focal point of this fic, and. Yeah. It ran away with me, obviously. It’s basically Arthur fucking Morgana but deluding himself into fantasising it’s Merlin he’s fucking. I’m rather fond of Morgana verbally porning Merlin’s hands up (and, yes, “porn up” so needs to be a valid word), and I like the idea of the Pendragon siblings being so emotionally stunted that they have to fuck to get it out of their heads. Because that makes sense.
> 
> 2\. INSECURE!ARTHUR IS MY NEW PORN
> 
> 3\. I have four different summaries but suck at giving a title. Sorry. You’ll have to do with my awesome song lyrics-picking habits again.
> 
> 4\. This is officially the second longest fic I’ve ever written (the other being my Gaius post-finale thing, 9k). And it’s basically PWP. I suppose that says something about my priorities (angst and porn, whoooh).
> 
> 5\. I love chest hair pulling. Seriously.
> 
> 6\. Last but most importantly: This fic would be nothing without N. A’s beta-reading skills. She kicked my arse hardcore and proofread the fuck out of this fic and made it, like, a hundred times better and more coherent. Thank you so much.
> 
> (P.S. Can you believe the first sentence of this A/N was initially “Idek what to say to this?” My arse.)

It’s late at night, half an hour after he dismissed Merlin (or, rather, Merlin dismissed himself). It’s the time after everyone has gone to sleep and the knights have finished their first rounds of patrol, guarding the quiet behemoth that protects the royal family while they slumber.

Only, the flames flicker strongly tonight, and the shadows in the nooks lengthen from the corners of Arthur’s eyes, outlines blurring with the surroundings, intermingling until they are one, and darkness fills his vision. Sometimes, he thinks he feels a gust of cool wind trembling like a ghost’s breath over the back of his neck.

The silence is treacherous. For some, sleep is but an illusion tonight.

He’s hunched uncomfortably over council notes, eyes fixed on the squiggly handwriting, and the late hour’s exhaustion weighs heavy on his eyelids. As much as he tries to focus in the dim light of the nearby candle, the letters are soon a black and indistinguishable smear. When Arthur feels the familiar soft thrumming of an incipient headache coming on, he shoves himself away from the desk and leans back in the chair with a groan. Rubbing the heel of his hand over his forehead, he fists his hair and tugs a little. It’s no use; he can’t finish it tonight. His father will have to grant him another day.

When there’s a knock on his door, Arthur is not as surprised as he perhaps should be.

In the beginning he thought it was Merlin, having forgotten something—until he remembered that Merlin doesn’t _knock_. Even now, though, when he knows it’s not Merlin, his belly rolls in the sharp anticipatory hope of _perhaps_.

( _Perhaps_ is dangerous to Arthur, even more dangerous than the physical wounds he’s had to get used to as a knight; it’s something that cannot be mended with bandages or salves, something _deep_ that he cannot tear out, because it’s intangible. It’s the most destructive and inspiring force he has ever encountered; it’s synonymous with hope, and it’s irrational and fierce, a lingering ache more devastating than a poisonous snake bite and more painful than broken bones could ever be.)

“Yes,” he calls, his voice carrying over the empty chamber. There’s a moment of silence, in which he watches the door that remains closed. As the seconds stretch, the hand supporting his chin balls itself into a fist, knuckles pressing against the side of his lower lip. The fingers of his other hand begin drumming against the armrest. There’s no sound. Normally, the door would be open by now. Arthur’s stomach tightens in what feels a little like sickness (what if, maybe), which makes him take a sharp breath through his nose, far too loud in the silence (too startled, too _affected_ ).

“Yes,” he says again, a little more demanding, in an irritated undertone. He doesn’t appreciate being played with. He doesn’t appreciate the way the discomfort engulfs his entire body and makes his muscles tense and hard. There should be no discomfort.

Finally, there’s a reaction. The door gives an ugly creak as it’s pushed open, and Arthur first stares, transfixed, at the shadow creeping over the floor of his chamber as he tries to make out whom it belongs to. His heart, useless thing that it is, picks up the pace and throbs faster and heavier in his chest, in his throat. It feels like an inordinately long time before he allows himself to look up, and—

Ah.

Yes.

Of course.

“Have you finally realised that you cannot both breathe and walk at the same time?” The words are out of his mouth before he can even think, and he prides himself on the cool tone of his voice, his body’s anxiety contained the way it should be. His fingers stop drumming. It’s just Morgana, after all. There’s no need for nervousness.

“As courteous as ever. How you manage to survive a day without broken teeth or black eyes is beyond me,” Morgana says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. She lingers there, and Arthur’s eyes dart over her, unconsciously checking for anything amiss, the way he always does. There seem to be no wounds or other physical maladies: She stands straight and collected, the tilt of her chin proud. Arthur watches the hem of her nightgown brush over the stone floor when she walks forward—gait smooth and elegant; there are no injuries on her legs, then—without invitation or demand, moving in his space like it’s hers, taking the freedom she could be so easily punished for as granted. Arthur’s lips quirk slightly. In so many ways, Morgana’s just like him.

“How anyone could possibly regard you as ladylike is beyond _me_ ,” he says pleasantly, eyes travelling up her body, disregarding the curves hidden underneath the wool embroidered fancifully with expensive patterns of silk (which Uther has traded from one of his faraway strongholds; only the best for Morgana, after all). He meets her gaze at last, blue finding green, and when he does, Morgana comes to a halt before the desk.

“You wouldn’t know ladylike if it stabbed you in the eyes,” she says, unimpressed. “And I know you find it hard to believe, but maybe I don’t care for ladylike behaviour.”

“No, Morgana,” Arthur says, the left corner of his mouth tilting up in an amused, crooked smile. “I don’t find that hard to believe at all.”

“Oh,” Morgana says, drawing out the vowel and affecting a high-pitched voice very unlike hers. “ _Do_ tell, Arthur—has one of the stable boys finally found a brain for you when they were mucking out the stables? Why, that’s excellent news. We shall celebrate tomorrow.”

“There will be celebrations for me, at least,” Arthur returns, the amused edge in his voice fading slightly as the headache returns with a violent pulsation, this time at the forefront of his brow. He closes his eyes. Sighs under his breath and tries to smooth the frown with his thumb and index finger. “Whereas for you, I fear there will be none. You will never accomplish banishing the harpy inside you.”

“Your wit. It is just as sharp as your sword, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes flutter open slightly, narrowed as they watch the pale line of Morgana’s index finger touch the dark wood of the desk. Just the tip, resting there, unmoving. “Neither has slain me so far. What does that tell you?”

“That my heart is too noble,” Arthur mutters, grimacing against the next thrum of pain biting at his skull. He’d rather suffer from a cut; he absolutely despises headaches. “I wouldn’t wish to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“Oh yes, Arthur.” Her voice is low as she speaks, and something in her tone—sharp and definite—demands Arthur’s attention, causes his body to stiffen instinctively. The crackle of the fire in the fireplace is loud, and it conjures up the illusion of the flames licking at his ears. For no reason, his body heats up, a leaden ball of dread begins growing in his stomach, and his hand unfolds, fingers curling around the blunt end of the armrest, gripping hard. He doesn’t raise his head, just stares at her index finger, still motionless on the edge of the table. His eyes narrow imperceptibly as, one after the other, middle finger follows index finger, ring follows middle, pinky follows ring. He suppresses the urge to lean back in the chair when the rustle of her nightgown alerts him to her movement. She steps around the desk to his side, coming closer. Her fingers slide around the table’s corner, pressing down against the wood so they curve slightly upwards to the arch that is the back of her hand. Arthur follows the movement of her hand, mesmerised in spite of himself. Morgana has beautiful hands; as small as a lady’s ought to be, the backs soft to the touch and well-cared for. The only way Arthur can bear the feeling of satin is when his lips touch the back of her hands… because he knows it’s just an illusion. On the insides of Morgana’s perfect hands is the truth; her palms are calloused, rough with secret sword sessions in the backyard that no one ever visits and used from her favourite bow. Morgana steps closer to him and Arthur watches her hand slide against the table, opening to rest flat on the surface, long fingers splayed, the seam of her sleeve slipping up with the movement, baring the thin bones of her fragile-looking, pale wrist. Another illusion. Arthur remembers the starkness of the jutting tendons in her wrist when she grips a sword.

“Oh yes, Arthur,” Morgana says again, and even though her voice dips lower, her words reach his ears clearly—intrusively. They are soft; Arthur knows it’s not a threat, but a reminder. He would have welcomed a threat more. A threat provokes a reaction, so he could actively do something against it. A reminder, however… it’s a constant presence. It festers like an ulcer, hidden and unseen. It says _I know. I know you know. I know you know you can’t do anything about it_. Arthur closes his eyes against her next words. She knows. Arthur knows she does. This is not the first time, and yet, her words cut him where his flesh is the softest. “I’m very sure that out of the two of us, it is me whose sensibilities are… delicate.”

There’s a silence, pregnant with things that remain forever unacknowledged in words. If it were anything else, Arthur wouldn’t hesitate—he’d lash out and give parry in this verbal duel, because the Gods know he’s not shy of tongue. Indeed, more often than not he enjoys the banter Morgana’s sharp tongue brings; it’s refreshing and engaging to train not only body but mind as well. But Morgana doesn’t just possess a sharp tongue. She possesses sharp eyes and a sharp wit, too; she’s more observant than most of Arthur’s knights, and he curses her for it. Bloody tart. She knows how to negotiate—knows how to get what she wants. What she needs. Knows how to employ the knowledge gathered from watching him watching someone he shouldn’t, too often, too attentive, too intense… too caring.

In so many ways, Morgana is just like him—an excellent hunter. She knows how to lay her traps, knows when she’s got him. And she has. Oh, she has.

“Are you tense, Arthur?” she continues, ever so slightly sardonic. Her fingers move, move towards him—and his eyes slide shut. His hand falls from his face, mirrors the other and lies on the armrest, gripping the end hard. His mouth opens to a shallow exhale. Morgana’s steps are quiet and precise as she comes to stand behind him, her fingertips touching the hard curves of his whitened knuckles before trailing over the back of his hand, leaving a tingling wildfire in their wake. Her presence behind him is large and looming. The deliberate restriction of his sight enhances the sensuality of the moment, her touch on him reaching deeper, her breath, when she leans forward, hot and wet and loud in his ears. Her long hair falls in thick curls over his shoulder, tickles against the side of his neck, against the bit of chest revealed in the deep neckline of his tunic.

It doesn’t affect Arthur. His breath remains calm, steady, like his pulse. Even as she leans closer so her breasts are pressing full and flat between his shoulder blades, his body barely reacts. This isn’t his desire—not what he wants, not what he needs.

Morgana knows that.

“So tense.” She hums under her breath and makes a tutting sound, and Arthur thinks he can hear a little bit of amusement creeping into her voice. “Always so tense. Have you beaten your knights again? Have you fought hard today, little prince, hmm? Until your arms and legs hurt, isn’t that right?” Her words are gusts of air against the back of Arthur’s ear. They tickle his hair, and he shivers. “Always pushing yourself. To be stronger, to be better. Because it’s your duty. But you like it too, don’t you? You like it, when they watch. When they admire you,” she whispers, amusement giving way to the deep timbre she gets when about to reveal a secret. In a way, she is. The idea of it, this implicit knowledge between them, acknowledged only in the time of a darkened sky, in the absence of the sun—it makes his cheeks flush, the first physical reaction to Morgana’s closeness. She leans forward, lets her lips brush fleetingly against the shell of his ear and rubs the side of her face against his, and in the pull of her cheek Arthur can feel a slight smile.

Morgana knows. It slays him each time anew. She knows she’s got Arthur, because this is _it_ —the thing that sits closest to his heart, his greatest friend and fiercest foe alike. She knows it’s not strictly her body that arouses him, but rather her words—the uttering of Arthur’s deepest secrets into this tight, tense space between them… giving voice to his desires when he muffles his own voice in the pillows, in his hand. When he denies himself, with good reason, the only thing he has ever wanted so selfishly.

“You like it, when they admire you,” she repeats. “Don’t you? When they… can see the hard muscles of your arms.” Both her hands lay themselves flat over Arthur’s curled ones, and she slides her palms (rough and calloused and used, Arthur remembers—like a labourer, a… servant) up his arms, feeling out the contours of his rigid muscles, cradling his broad shoulders under her hands. “When they see how strong you are. When they see how you fight so hard it makes you sweat—makes your skin glisten in the sun, and they can’t look away, because you’re so handsome, Arthur, so handsome,” she coos and presses a butterfly kiss to the soft spot underneath his jaw. “And you feel their eyes on you, you _crave_ it—it’s what makes you fight harder, the possible approval in their eyes. When they look at you and think oh, that’s a fine man. That’s a fine knight. So skilled. So capable and strong. So good. You want to be good for them, Arthur, don’t you.”

The words make Arthur’s throat dry, because yes—yes, he wants to be good for them… enough. He wants to be _enough_ for them.

Morgana knows.

“You want to be enough for them.” She voices Arthur’s insecurities aloud in a whisper. Arthur swallows hard. “You want to be enough for them so they will see you. You want for them to _want_ you. You want it so badly, Arthur…”

Arthur’s breath hitches as her hands slide towards his neck, slow, slow. His skin is burning beneath hers. She straightens a little, shakes her head and quickly reaches for her hair—flings it over her shoulder so it doesn’t touch him anymore. Her hands return to the sides of his neck, thumbs digging into his jaw, holding him there unmoving.

“You want it so much that you imagine,” Morgana whispers. “You imagine that you’re alone. That there’s just one other person there. Don’t you?”

Yes, Arthur does.

“And I know they’ve got nice hands.”

They have.

“They’ve got nice hands, Arthur. Helping, healing hands. Good with herbs and salves, careful when they want to be. When they don’t want to be, they’re clumsy, aren’t they,” she says in a questioning tone, her fingers against Arthur’s throat pressing firmly for an answer. He jerks his head in a nod. “But you like them clumsy—it’s what makes them genuine. They’re genuine hands. A worker’s hands, yes?” The pressure of her fingers lets up. Their tips dip into the hollow of Arthur’s clavicle before they spread over the bone there, and her palms come to lie flat at the base of his throat. “Rough from scrubbing the floor with a dirty rag. Calloused from holding training swords the wrong way when you’re in one of your moods. Maybe scarred, too—maybe they’ve got lots of stories to tell. I don’t know, Arthur—they’re not mine,” she says lowly and her hands slide up, find the hard bulk of muscle connecting neck and shoulder underneath his collar, grip the thick cords of it hard. “But you know they’re strong, yes? Because you watch them. At work, in secret. You admire them, all the things they do… all the things they do for you. And you appreciate them, too, even if you’re an arse about it. But you can’t help it, can you, wishing that those strong, strong hands…” Morgana presses the heels of her hands against the back of Arthur’s shoulder in the mockery of a massaging movement, digs her nails into his skin. It’s good—Arthur can feel the hurt from her strong and capable hands. Like a labourer’s, a… servant’s…

Morgana lets her words hang in the air, the silence stretching. The pressure of her hands does not yield.

“What?” he says, sudden, under his breath. His voice is rough. His eyes are closed. He imagines; he always imagines. “What do I wish for?”

“That those strong hands, Arthur… you wish they would touch you,” Morgana murmurs, and her hands wander down his neck again, disappear back under his tunic. “You wish that they would touch your chest. Your broad chest, your strong muscles. So strong that you can fill their hands with it.” She slides her palms over the curve of Arthur’s chest, fingers curling underneath it and—she cups his flesh, squeezes slightly, but h… their—their hands, they’d lie flat over it. Their hands are larger. Her hands aren’t theirs.

Morgana knows.

“Their hands are larger, I know,” Morgana says in an apologetic tone. She knows she’s not… what Arthur desires—not what he wants, not what he needs. There’s a sudden cold shock of disappointment in his belly, because—because Arthur will never know, will he? Their hands on him. He’ll never know.

“Shhh,” Morgana soothes after the audible hitch in his breath, a gasp like a hiccup escaping his mouth. Arthur’s body feels so tight and taut and he hates what he is doing, he hates it, but he can’t stop. Morgana bends forward again, places a kiss in his hair. Her hands slide down over his contracting stomach. “I know they’re not my hands. It’s okay. But you can imagine, Arthur, you can imagine,” she says firmly, urging Arthur on. As if she wants him to. As if she needs him to. As if she needs this more than he does.

And she does. Arthur knows she does. She doesn’t feel guilty for using him—because that’s what she’s doing—because he is doing the same.

They need each other.

“Open your eyes,” Morgana says and Arthur shakes his head violently, _no_. No. Because if he does—if he does, then it’s over. And he can’t. Not yet.

“Trust me,” she breathes in his ear, and he feel the stagger of her breath, the tremble in it translating all her unspoken desperation. _Please_ , she’s saying. _Please, do this for me. I need you. I need you tonight._

Arthur is grimacing even as he gives a slight nod and opens his eyes to slits. The room is a blur before him, hazy through the burning wetness in his eyes that he can’t suppress.

“Imagine their hands, Arthur,” Morgana carries on, relentless, her voice controlled again now that she knows he has allowed her to continue playing her game. “Imagine it. How strong they are. How large. How beautiful. How honest when they touch you. They’re so—they’re so pale, Arthur, as white as a ghost, and they look so fragile because they’re so thin. So pale, so thin, aren’t they? Their hands,” she says and lays her chin on Arthur’s head. When she speaks, he can feel it move. It’s rhythmic, soothing his worries away, allowing him to fall back into her words. “Their hands—so lovely, they’re so lovely, and you adore them, you love them. Their pale, thin hands, and those long, long fingers… You can see them when you look down, Arthur.” Her voice fades back into the timbre of a secret, hushed and quiet, strengthening in force as she gains her confidence back. Arthur feels his mind opening up to it, his breath escaping his slack mouth in a quick, shuddery exhalation, because—yes, yes, they _are_ , so pale and thin, so white, and—

“Look down,” Morgana urges him, and Arthur does.

Underneath his tunic, Morgana’s fingers are splayed over his chest, and they’re long and elegant fingers. Something in Arthur’s chest clenches as he realises for the first time that Morgana’s fingernails, usually long, well-kept and clean… She’s bitten them short and uneven. She hasn’t cleaned them, because there are fine dark curves of dirt in some of them, like she hasn’t had the time to clean them. Or the privilege, really, because maybe because she’s working all the time, maybe she’s working two jobs, has to touch dirty things like a labourer, a—like a… like a servant—

“They’re dirty like his hands,” Morgana says in a rush, and he feels her tense behind him, because she knows—she knows she’s got him now.

“And they’re pale, Arthur, so pale,” she says and Arthur nods, because it’s true—Morgana’s hands are as white as a ghost.

“And so thin, too, like you could break them if you wanted.” He nods along with her words, his chin pressing down onto his chest as his eyes are fixed firmly on her hands, so like, so like—

“But you don’t want to, and you really couldn’t,” Morgana murmurs, and now her breath hitches too. “He—he’s got you in his hands, doesn’t he, and he doesn’t even know, doesn’t even know that he could slide his palms, so calloused and rough, so _used_ , Arthur, so used from all the work—he doesn’t know that he can stroke your chest with it, your nipples, your belly.” Her words come hurried now, in tandem with the quickening rush of blood in Arthur’s veins. He watches, fascinated, as Morgana’s hands become _his_ , broadening as he slides his palms over Arthur’s chest. The callouses on the heels of his hands tickle the hair on Arthur’s chest, rubbing over Arthur’s nipples, so stiff and tight now, and it’s so good, such a sweet ache—because it’s him, it’s him now. Arthur imagines, because he always imagines, and he’s so good at it too because it’s the only way he can have this, have—have—

“You really _couldn’t_ break them,” she says, suddenly fierce, and the words sink into his bloodstream and nerves, electrifying and shocking, because yes, yes, she’s right. “You couldn’t, because you know in truth they’re strong,” she hisses, and he echoes the hiss and grits his teeth—brings his hands into his lap to fist the fabric of his breeches near his upper thighs, crushing it between his fingers because there’s an unbearable pressure building up in his groin, a tightening, and Arthur can feel himself twitching, growing hard, harder.

“They’re so strong, Arthur, and they’d get through your thick skull—they’d get you to fuck him, the way you want to, they’d get you to do that by doing _this_ ,” Morgana says and fists the curled, coarse hair on Arthur’s chest and pulls, _pulls_ , the vicious pressure away from Arthur’s body making his skin stretch, a series of jagged tiny mountains. It _hurts_ as she just continues and braces her hands with her heels digging hard into his chest to increase the force, stings like fire, piercing and sharp and painful—

“C’mon Arthur,” she whispers furiously into Arthur’s ear, breath hot and wet—bites down on his earlobe, careless and punishing. “He’s telling you what he wants. He’s here, right here, along with all the pain, and his hands are pulling at you—c’mon, he wants it, he wants it so bad, wants you to fuck him, hard and fast—”

The skin on Arthur’s chest is angry and red and sore, stings like an open wound, so tangible and present, so overwhelming. So very much unlike the ache of hope _inside_ , the one he can’t reach, the one that’s driving him mad because it won’t go away. This now, this is real, isn’t it, and he hisses and spits with it, the want the urge the _need_ now barely concealed, roaring like an untamed beast within his chest, because he’s _Arthur’s_ , he’s Arthur’s. Arthur can’t claim him, because it would be taking advantage, and Arthur doesn’t know if he’d even want this, and Arthur knows he’d do everything for him, and Arthur needs this, needs this so fucking bad; the only thing he’s ever truly wanted for himself. His emotions are violent and wild and hungry, and just a little push, just a little push, he needs just a little more and it’s out—

“Until he doesn’t know anything but you, Arthur—until he’s forgotten his name,” Morgana hisses, and Arthur bends his head back against her chest and arches his spine forward, away from the chair, into the firepull of her fingers.

And when she says it, “Merlin,” the black hole of his want opens, raging through his chest in its consuming fury.

Arthur’s hands snap up to grip Morgana’s wrists and he tears her hands away from his chest, barely even registers the last vicious sting of the abused, sore skin. He sits utterly still for a moment, his hold on her tight. His nostrils flare, and his hands are trembling.

“I’m going to use you so hard,” Arthur murmurs into the room. A shaky, last warning. “And I won’t stop.”

“Then fucking _do_ it,” she growls.

Her words are the permission Arthur needs to finally, finally partake in this charade the way he wants to. As soon as his grip on her lessens in force, Morgana tears her hands away and takes a step back. Her breathing is loud in the room, harsh and panting, and Arthur is deceptively collected as he raises himself from the chair and turns around to see her—look into her face for the first time this evening, really _look_ at her.

It’s everything he expected.

Morgana’s face is wild like his untamed hunger, starved and desperate. Her pupils are blown in the winter-consumed green of her eyes, overbright and glazed with a wet sheen of unshed tears and rough nights. Her brows are knit together like she’s confused, but Arthur knows she’s not—she never is. She knows what she wants, and it reads in the swollen, puffed circles underneath her eyes, visible echoes of countless hours lying awake, fighting away the inexplicable nightmares by sheer force of will. Her cheeks are flushed bright red from excitement, perhaps a remnant of fear—not of Arthur, though. Morgana doesn’t fear him. She fears what would happen if he didn’t give in, and he can see it in the pallor of her skin, the unruly disarray of her hair, sticking in all directions like she’s been running her hands through it all night, fisting and tugging at it, pulling at it, the same wildfire pain burning over her scalp like the one that’s still making his chest sting. She’s a mess. She’s a fucked-up, sleepless mess, and when she speaks about Arthur fucking Merlin so he’d forget his name—she’s talking about herself.

Morgana wants to be fucked. Wants to be used—wants it vicious and dirty and painful. She wants to give back all the hurt Arthur can give her, because even though she’s exhausted, she’s not exhausted enough, not enough to sleep.

This is why she needs Arthur. Because in all the ways that she is like him, he is like her. She doesn’t ask any questions about Merlin, only observes, and Arthur doesn’t tell; he doesn’t ask any questions about her nights, only observes, and she doesn’t tell.

In all the ways Arthur doesn’t know how to ask for something, she doesn’t either. In all the ways Morgana doesn’t know how to comfort him, he doesn’t either.

Arthur does it the only way he knows how—instead of asking if she wants to talk, he steps forward and fists the hair at the back of her neck, drags her head back forcefully until she’s looking up at him, all gritting teeth beneath a sharp, mocking smile, flaring nostrils and spitfire.

“No wonder he won’t have you,” she taunts Arthur recklessly, utterly uncaring that she’s walking on a thin rope he can cut in a second, making her fall and crack all her bones open, marrow splitting until she’d disintegrate apart at the seams. But then again, this is what she wants, isn’t it? Only she wants it worse, because she doesn’t wait before she hisses, “That all you’ve got? All words and empty promises, _sire_?” She spits out the last word with a treasonous disregard for Arthur’s authority, full of the contempt she so successfully hides from the court in daylight.

The blatant disobedience coupled with the mocking _sire_ sends Arthur’s pulse high and wild. He doesn’t care—doesn’t care anymore that she’s Morgana, because if she wants to play the game, he can, too. If he plays the game, she’s _him_ —dark-haired and beautiful, rebellious and impertinent, a force Arthur never reckoned with but aches to tame; aches to tame beneath him, aches to smother into submission under his weight. Aches to tame in the most primal and instinctive ways he knows, because he needs to take Merlin all for himself or he will burn.

“Shut up,” Arthur snaps in the tone he uses whenever his manservant thinks he’s being clever. Merlin stills with Arthur’s hand in his hair, looking up at him and searching his face before he finds what he’s looking for and—his smile stretches into a grin that isn’t quite _it_ , but it’s close enough, and Arthur’s desperate enough to let it go.

Merlin’s nails, uneven and blunt, dig hard into the side of Arthur’s throat, fingertips pressing against the fast and irregular heartbeat pulsing there, and then he drags his nails down—for the sake of pain, because Arthur knows Merlin likes it, always likes it in Arthur’s dreams. Straight across Arthur’s throat Merlin’s finger’s wander, catching on his Adam’s apple—Arthur has to narrow his eyes against the pain, keeping himself from jerking his head to the side—down to his chest, leaving four trails of fire in their wake, and then back to the hair on Arthur’s chest, and Merlin spreads his fingers and catches it between his knuckles and—pulls Arthur toward him.

“Make me,” Merlin’s saying, looking up at him coyly from underneath his lashes, “if you think you can—make me, you _prat_.”

Arthur does. But not verbally.

Merlin doesn’t let go of him even as Arthur yanks him in viciously by the hair and drags him along toward the bed. Merlin yowls like an angry cat and Arthur’s chest burns again as Merlin keeps tearing at it, vindictive little bitch that he is, but Arthur cuts him off—throws him unceremoniously down on the bed with enough force that he bounces on it a little. Arthur doesn’t waste any time in dragging his tunic over his head, throwing it somewhere. He reaches down to tear at the laces of his breeches as he stares at Merlin: cheeks flushed, lips lush and angry red, the curve of his neck, thin and delicate and long, bared like an invitation for Arthur’s teeth to mark him, so everyone will know he’s Arthur’s and—

“You’re always so slow, Arthur,” Merlin says with a mocking grin and crawls forward on all fours, reaching for Arthur’s groin—but it’s all wrong. The ‘r’ is different when he says Arthur’s now, too different, and that’s—that’s not—

“You will address me by my title,” Arthur snaps, glaring down at Merlin. Disobedient idiot, Arthur thinks, cursing the other man a little more inside his head than necessary. But what does it matter? It gets Arthur’s blood going, gets him harder and stiffer in his breeches when he thinks about Merlin’s insolent mouth, thinks about how he wants to stuff it—wants to stuff it with his dick so far down Merlin’s throat that he has to swallow all his own ribaldries along with Arthur’s come. Yeah, Arthur wants that, wants to stuff all the places of Merlin where he’s empty and aching for Arthur until he’s snug and so full with Arthur’s spending that it leaks out of him and trickles out of the corners of his swollen mouth, down his chin, over his throat and the red smears of possession Arthur’s sucked in there.

Merlin gasps at the command and fumbles at Arthur’s laces until he’s got them loose with one particularly impatient tug. He’s leaning forward on his knees on the edge of the bed and holding onto Arthur’s hips as Arthur’s dick slips free, finally, bobbing up and down stiffly. Arthur grips it, merciless in his tight fist.

“Purse your lips and open your mouth,” he says harshly, then watches how Merlin obeys (for once in his life, because he’s seriously useless most of the time and ‘obedience’ might as well be a foreign term for him). His lips purse and his mouth opens, and that makes his lips fuller, makes them plumper, and it’s better than before, better than the thinner, more delicate mouth. Arthur wants Merlin as he is and no different, want his lush and pouty lips stretched obscenely wide around his cock. And it makes Arthur groan, because yeah, that _works_ , and if he grips Merlin’s hair (he seriously needs a fucking haircut—Arthur knows his hair tends to get all thick and curly when it’s too long, but this is bloody ridiculous) and directs his length with his hand to the ‘O’ of Merlin’s mouth and feeds his cockhead inside, and it’s _good_ , so fucking good, wet and hot.

“Close your mouth,” Arthur mutters. Merlin does, and Arthur is transfixed with the sight of those lips closing around his dick, mouth a thin red smear that he’ll abuse because Merlin deserves it, deserves to be face-fucked into silence. It’s for every “clot pole” and “prat,” and every misused utterance of “sire” that he says in a way that makes Arthur’s guts flare up with sinful desire, because Merlin has to know what it does to him. Arthur begins moving his hips slowly, pulling back until only the tip remains in Merlin’s mouth, and Merlin tries to come after him, strains against the grip Arthur has on his hair, like he needs Arthur back in his throat again. But Arthur holds him there tight and firm and watches him struggle, eyes glaring up at Arthur, but Merlin’s a clever little minx, sticking the tip of his talented tongue into Arthur’s slit and dragging it up and down. He traces little circles in the tiny indentation there, and Arthur’s cock _jerks_ at that, a brief but strong shudder through his shaft, and when his tip spurts a bit of precome Merlin licks it up with the flat of his tongue—and then he swallows, like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, like he needs more of that, more of Arthur, always more of Arthur.

“Mmmh, you’re good.” Arthur allows the murmured words of praise to slip past his lips, along with a shaky breath. “You’re so good, sucking like you were made for this.”

Merlin’s eyelashes flutter closed at that and he dips his head a little further down, the tip of his nose obscuring his mouth from Arthur’s view. Arthur’s hand tightens in Merlin’s hair and he accidentally tilts his face to the side, and it bares the curve of Merlin’s cheek, and Arthur—Arthur feels goosebumps on his arms, suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck standing with a prickle. He swallows and rasps, “Suck harder,” and when Merlin does, Arthur angles his face in just such a way that when his cheek hollows, the bone of it juts out in a harsh arc, kicks off perfectly with the narrow everything of his face, just like—yeah, just like—

“Oh fuck,” Arthur groans, guttural and deep, and it resonates with the sharp pull of pleasure in his guts. Merlin hums and the vibration that it sends through Arthur’s length is _insane_ , shattering his control before the next breath. The heat roars up in Arthur’s chest and shocks his pelvis into moving, vicious aborted thrusts that shove his groin right into Merlin’s face, Merlin’s nose buried in his pubic hair, Arthur’s dick down Merlin’s throat, and his throat constricts around Arthur and makes it _tight_ as Merlin’s making obscene, precious little gagging noises. The _slap-slap-slap_ of his balls against Merlin’s chin makes Arthur’s pulse quicken, makes him grunt loudly over Merlin’s wheezing, desperate attempts at drawing in air through his nostrils.

“Fuck,” Arthur hisses when it becomes too much, the pleasure coiling tight for a moment, and he pulls Merlin off of him, quickly stops his balls from drawing up in orgasm with the tight circle of his fist around the base of his dick. He clenches his eyes shut at the almost-release, stomach spasming and coiling, legs trembling with it—almost but not there, and that’s good, that’s good. Arthur draws in deep, heavy breaths, watches through slitted eyes the mess of pale limbs that’s Merlin. He’s clutching at his throat, chest heaving underneath the ridiculous white dress (and whyever Merlin thought a dress would look good on him is beyond Arthur); it’s a beautiful sight, Merlin’s eyes scrunched up and lips raw from use, and now he doesn’t need to purse his mouth anymore to make it the way it should be, because Arthur’s made a good job of fucking those lips sore-swollen and plump.

“Gorgeous,” Arthur murmurs, eyes following the red-smeared curve of Merlin’s mouth while he strokes his thumb slowly over his hot length, slickly, because it’s so wet with Merlin’s saliva that it’s trickling down his balls. “I think you deserve something,” he says and kneels on the bed, shuffling forward to Merlin, who watches him approach with wild, wide, interested eyes.

Merlin’s breathing has calmed significantly, and his mouth is slightly slack as he speaks. “What is it?” he asks, voice rough, so used, so beautifully _used_ that a shiver slithers up Arthur’s spine. And Merlin’s impossible, so greedy and hungry, a veritable fucking glutton with the way he licks his lips as he sits up and makes one of his half-arsed bows that are more a statement of his indiscipline—of him saying ‘I don’t give a fuck for propriety’—than of actual deference. Arthur breathes in sharply, his belly clenching hard, and then—then he decides he’s fucking done with Merlin tonight, because Merlin’s lips curve up in that mocking little half-smile he always has when thinks he knows something Arthur doesn’t, and he adds, nonchalant as fuck, “Why don’t you tell me, my _lord_?”

That does it.

Arthur gives a snarl and grabs Merlin by the arms, shoves him up the bed and flips him around so he’s lying on his belly. Arthur wants to rip that stupid fucking dress apart, because Merlin doesn’t _wear_ dresses, and he wants to see all of Merlin’s skin, but the little voice inside him that’s retained the tiniest bit of sanity tells him it’s not a good idea, for reasons he can’t quite remember right now. Instead, he reaches for the laces of the dress and fists them—clenches his muscles and tears the laces apart, disregards the way they cut into the middle of his fingers, a stinging burn. The fabric loosens significantly around Merlin’s waist, and it makes him lose all his wrong curves in the mess of it. For a moment that relieves Arthur, but he still needs to see Merlin’s skin—still needs to see all the paleness stretched out like a banquet for him, so he grits his teeth against the surge of discomfort in his belly and grips Merlin’s ankle, thin as a bird’s bone so that Arthur’s entire hand fits around it, so fragile in his grip he could break it. It anchors Arthur, the weight of Merlin in his palm, and he closes his eyes for a moment to focus, concentrates hard on Merlin’s voice inside him, because Arthur knows Merlin’s voice—would know it from a thousand others, the amused tilt of it when he calls Arthur _sire_ , the poorly hidden impertinence when he blatantly disobeys a command, and most of all that rough, deep timbre, voice going thick like honey when he’s saying something full of insane devotion, full of belief not for the man Arthur _could_ be as everyone else sees him, no—but for the man Arthur already is, the one he was when Merlin met him on that fateful day and the one he’s going to be someday.

So when Morgana under him groans, “Fuck me already, Arthur,” he swallows hard, because what he hears is Merlin, whispering into his ear, low and wanton, “Get on with it, you prat.”

There is no Morgana; in front of Arthur is Merlin, arching his back for Arthur’s touch, and Arthur reveals all of that beautiful pale skin as he rucks the dress up Merlin’s body, up his back to his neck. Arthur shoves Merlin’s face into the pillows before him when he grips him by the back of his thin neck underneath his broad, strong palm—and he can’t see Merlin’s face anymore like this, dress bunched up around his shoulders and head.

Arthur growls, “I’ve told you to address me by my title,” and dismisses the last ounce of insecurity and discomfort, because there is no Morgana. There is only him and Merlin and their mutual, undeniable need for one another.

Arthur raises himself on his knees, legs still slightly shaky, but he’s holding it together because he knows it’s getting good now—now he’ll get what he’s been waiting for, and he’ll give Merlin what he deserves, what he wants. Merlin makes indistinguishable noises into the pillow and stretches his arse back impatiently. Arthur grins sharply at the sight, at the obvious need imprinted into the lines of Merlin’s body, and when Arthur places his hands on Merlin’s waist it cuts off those weird curves, and Arthur’s eyes can follow the dip of Merlin’s spine straight down what’s now an angular body made of smooth skin. Arthur kneels between Merlin’s spread legs—parting for him easily like it’s where he belongs—and allows a shiver to creep over his back as his cock slips between the cheeks of Merlin’s arse. The head of it is messy-smeared with saliva and precome, sliding slickly over the curves of Merlin’s flesh that Arthur is palming in his hands. He pulls it apart to watch his own cock, stiff and flared an angry red, rub over the sparse dark hair and against the furled pink of Merlin’s hole teasingly. Merlin makes another broken sound into the pillow, shuffles his knees wider apart and presses his pelvis back so Arthur presses closer against him, and Arthur would tease him further—but he’s at the end of his line now, so he reaches for his dick, slides his hand down the length of it and holds it steadily at the base while he presses forward against Merlin’s plump backside, dips lower beneath the curve, lower, just a little lower—

Then he moans loudly, helplessly, as he sinks into Merlin, going forward inch by inch, in, in, in, and up into the pink of Merlin’s arsehole—and it’s so hot inside him, so hot and tight and _wet_ , and Arthur grits his teeth against the sudden knowledge that Merlin’s prepared himself for him. Obviously he’s spent the evening fingering his little bottom, because how else would Merlin be this wet? Arthur can almost see him prodding and teasing at his rim until the first finger slipped inside, the flat of Merlin’s heavy sac, swollen in anticipation, rubbing over the inside of his wrist as he’s shoving his middle finger into his hole, the long elegant line of it crooked at the second knuckle, the tip of it swallowed by his tight pucker. Arthur tells him that, because he needs to hear Merlin say it.

“Fucked yourself open for me, didn’t you,” Arthur hisses when his balls are pressed flat against Merlin’s arse. Gods, but Merlin’s—he’s incredible, so wanton for Arthur he’s _leaking_ with it, coating Arthur’s entire length in all the lavish oil he must’ve stuffed up in the tight space of himself, probably mixed with his own saliva (and oh, his mouth must have watered with it, with the thought of having Arthur inside him)—and maybe come, too, just for Arthur, so he can feel it trickle down his balls, cold and tickling the light hairs on the insides of his thighs.

“Tell me.”

Arthur’s hips falter in their movement, the tight grip of Merlin’s muscles squeezing along his length easy and nice and slick, so slick because Merlin couldn’t wait for him and worked himself open. Arthur can’t get it out of his head—it festers in the back of his mind and grows, grows and grows until it’s consuming all his other thoughts, the idea of Merlin so desperate for Arthur he’s finger-fucked himself, pounded his own beautiful arse the way Arthur’s doing now as he’s pushing back in, a little faster, a little harder, and it’s just not enough. It’s just not enough; Arthur wants to give more to Merlin, so he does—builds up a ruthless, brutal pace that forces Merlin’s muscles apart for Arthur and accommodate his length inside where it belongs. Arthur plows him good and proper until Merlin’s sobbing little _ah-ah-ah_ sounds into the dark space beneath the fabric of the gown and the bed of pillows, and Arthur imagines what it must be like: nothing but darkness surrounding him, no sense of orientation and purpose, no name… nothing but the slide of Arthur’s length inside, so intimate and close, like an extension of himself, because he’s wanted it, was so desperate for Arthur that—

“Tell me you fucked yourself open for me,” Arthur demands again in a hoarse whisper, words perilously close to a sob. It’s making his chest ache, this disgusting fat parasite, this slow burn, the treacherous four-letter word: hope, irrational and fierce, sitting snug and deep inside him, intangible. Arthur can’t tear it out, and it hurts more than broken bones, he remembers, because it lingers beneath his ribs when he wakes up with it every morning in his empty bed, visceral as the longing that sits like thirst, never to be stilled, in his throat and aches, aches, aches…

“Tell me, _tell me_ —”

“Yes,” comes the long, low groan from underneath the ball of fabric, words slurred and voice muffled by the pillow so that Arthur can’t even tell whose voice it is—it needn’t be Morgana, because Morgana isn’t here; it’s Merlin, Merlin who wants him needs him _loves him_. The ultimate affirmation of his desires makes Arthur fuck Merlin recklessly into the mattress, the bed frame thumping against the wall from the force, and Arthur’s insane with the need to claim Merlin, to make Merlin his, and something bitter blooms in his belly at the idea that Merlin’s waited for him, that he thought he couldn’t have Arthur. Arthur wants to keep Merlin here underneath him always, safe and protected and cherished, and Merlin can have him all the time, whenever and however he wants, because he’s Arthur’s and Arthur’s his. The thought makes Arthur pound into him just that much harder, so Merlin will be fucked sore and raw the next day and feel the twinge of it in every step, so everyone will see and _know_.

And when Arthur comes he comes for Merlin; finally uttering the word he’s forbidden himself to say all these nights, the word he’s kept trapped inside his head, the synonym for the slow burn of hope—a hoarse, choked “Merlin” leaving his lips like a benediction. It releases the knot in his chest at last, and the wetness in his eyes burns for all the things he’ll never say.

When Arthur comes he comes for Merlin, and he pumps Merlin full of his seed so Merlin won’t remember what it’s like to be empty, what it’s like to yearn—what it’s like to be without Arthur.

\---

When the door of Arthur’s chambers close, it’s the time of twilight in which dreams appear real to a sleep-addled mind, dangerous illusions playing tricks on the senses. Sometimes, it’s the harbinger of ruin, the darkness of the sky intensifying fear to an insidious, cold voice that speaks of the futility of yearning. Other times, it’s a refuge for lost souls—this night, it’s a refuge for the woman who has forgotten her name, stumbling back to her chambers on tired, trembling legs, body weary-weak from exhaustion, mind heavy-blank, overdue for a deep, dreamless sleep.

Now, the flames flicker less strongly, calm in the early morning hour. The shadows in the nooks retain their shapes, and the only gust of wind trembling over the back of Arthur’s neck is Merlin in his dreams, Merlin’s breath warming his cold skin.

The silence is beautiful. The only thing Arthur can hear is Merlin’s calm, steady phantom heartbeat with his chest pressed against Arthur’s back.

**Author's Note:**

> (P.P.S. I just love chest hair pulling, sorry? ~~not sorry~~ )


End file.
